


Relapse

by OzQueen



Category: Lost
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-30
Updated: 2013-04-30
Packaged: 2017-12-10 00:13:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/779586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OzQueen/pseuds/OzQueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It doesn't take much to convince Juliet her desire to leave the island isn't as strong as her desire for other things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Relapse

**Author's Note:**

  * For [isquinnabel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/isquinnabel/gifts).



> Happy birthday, isquinnabel. LOOK. You mean so much to me I'm writing thousands of words of Lost fic, just for you. ;) ♥
> 
> (I've never written Lost fic before, and my memory of canon is rusty, eep. So prepare for glitches.)

They've been living this fake married bliss for a little over a month now, and nobody's called them out on it yet.

It's easier than Juliet had predicted it would be. James isn't as difficult to live with as most people would believe, and he's given her more space than she probably needs. Sometimes, when she feels like talking, or complaining, or wondering, he's nowhere to be found. He disappears to avoid the unspoken: _I have dug us to the bottom of a very deep hole._

The motor pool isn't as difficult as she had thought it would be, either. Recognising the inner workings of an engine is nothing compared to recognising the inner workings of a human being. A lot of the problems all turn out the same, and Juliet's got them figured out in a week or so. Sometimes, if she can't bluff her way through something, she'll go home and ask James, and he'll rattle off a list of parts that might need replacing and how she should go about tracking down the fault.

“Why didn't you volunteer yourself for the motor pool?” she grumbles at him one night.

He gives her a sunny grin and turns the page of his book. “Not sure I'd be able to concentrate with you bendin' over engines in front of me all day.”

“Charming,” she sniffs.

* * *

Having James work in Dharma Security does come in handy. He hears things; sees things. Gossip at the motor pool is in good supply, but so is the workload, and Juliet doesn't always get time to work the truth free from the spin.

Though he's still at the bottom of the ladder, James has established himself as a man of importance, barely in the blink of an eye, and Juliet can't help but admire him for it.

* * *

He lets her have the bed to herself. He sleeps on the couch – doesn't even complain. They're careful about getting the blankets and the pillows packed away each morning. The last thing they need is some visitor spreading around the idea that their relationship is on the rocks.

The wholesome, trustworthy thing they've got going seems tied up in this little marriage skit they're performing, and things aren't solid enough yet for any complications.

Juliet wants to ask about the future, but just thinking about it gives her a headache.

She doesn't ask; just keeps going. Gets up each morning and pulls on her Dharma coveralls. James has always made coffee by the time she reaches the kitchen.

“Another day in Dharma-ville,” he drawls.

“See you tonight, hubby.” She rolls her eyes at him before she leaves; catches the grin on his face.

* * *

Tropical paradise has long since worn thin for Juliet. She can't remember what it felt like, _wanting_ to be in this place.

The constant rain and humidity is making things even worse.

She's sick of waiting. She has no idea what has happened to Locke or the others – maybe they're dead. Maybe they're trapped thirty years in the future. Either way, she's screwed.

And the sub is still coming and going.

She thinks about this as she wipes the grease from her hands and watches the rain pour from the sky.

She wants to be anywhere else.

* * *

When she makes it back to the house, soaked to the skin, James is already there. She stops short when she sees him sprawled on the couch, his mouth slightly open, face pale. His eyes are closed and he's wrapped up in a blanket like a burrito. She tilts her head and watches him for a moment, trying to remember how he'd been that morning.

She can remember him being pale and quiet the night before, pushing his food around his plate.

She frowns and squelches her way to the bathroom to change.

* * *

James is cool to the touch, but his skin is waxy and damp against Juliet's cool fingers. She prods him awake gently, and his eyes are glazed when they finally open.

“Hey, Mrs LaFleur,” he croaks. “Back up or you'll get a lungful of... plague.”

Juliet grins at him. “I'll risk it. How long have you been home?”

He slings his arm across his eyes. “Not rightly sure.”

“You taken anything?”

“Don't get all doctory,” he says. “I'm fine.”

“I'll take that as a no.” She barely resists the urge to roll her eyes. “What is it with men? A few germs and you all fall to pieces.”

James mutters something and rolls over, scrunching the blankets beneath him and pushing the couch cushions askew.

Juliet looks him over for a minute before she sighs and pokes him again. “Hey, Mr. LaFleur,” she says. “I think you'd better crawl into bed.”

* * *

James has piled blankets across the bed and is burrowed deep into the mattress, sleeping soundly. Juliet hesitates for a moment before she sits beside him and touches his cheek again, giving him a sympathetic smile when he opens his eyes.

“Hey,” he breathes. “You want me out of here?”

“Oh, you have no idea,” Juliet says mockingly. “Sit up.”

“Yeah,” he says, and he rolls over, his limbs heavy and slow. “Just...”

“Just sit up, James,” she says. “You're not going back to the couch, okay? Drink this, and take these.” She drops two ibuprofen into his palm.

“What is it?” he asks suspiciously. He shivers a little as he emerges from his cocoon of blankets.

She shrugs, her eyes wide. “Could be anything.”

“This ain't a real marriage, you know,” he says, taking the glass of water from her hand. “You won't get a big life insurance payout if you kill me.”

She laughs and props his pillows up against the headboard as he shifts.

He obediently takes the pills and drinks the entire glass of water before he sinks back again, looking sorry for himself. “Fuckin' island,” he says, closing his eyes again.

“Of course the island is making you sick,” Juliet agrees sympathetically. “It's got nothing to do with you walking back and forth in the rain all day and never drying your shoes properly.”

Sawyer opens one eye and frowns at her. “What sort of a bedside manner do you call this?”

She smirks at him and he sighs.

“Y'know,” he says, “I was shot on this damn island, and I healed up pretty damn fast. Healed up when maybe I shouldn't have healed up at all.”

Juliet thinks back to all the medical abnormalities she's attributed to the island before, and nods. “Yeah,” she agrees. “Things are different here.”

“So,” Sawyer whispers, annoyed, his eyes dark and dilated as his head droops, “explain to me how a bullet wound can heal like that, but a man can still die from the flu.”

“You're not dying,” Juliet says with a grin.

He sinks back into the pillows with a sigh, apparently too tired to keep up the act of self-pity for long.

Juliet takes the empty glass back to the kitchen and sets it on the sink. She watches the rain pour down until lights start coming on in the neighbouring houses.

* * *

The house feels empty. Juliet realises, for the first time, that she and James have a routine when it comes to dinner. She usually has things underway by now, waiting for him to come home. When he walks in the door, he'll change into jeans and a t-shirt and then he'll come back and help her – set the table, uncork a bottle of wine, complain loudly about Miles, or the uncomfortable chairs in the security station, or the weather...

Juliet pulls a cupboard open and takes out a can of chicken noodle soup. She heats it on the stove, her damp hair drying around her shoulders in loose waves.

James is dozing when she goes back to the bedroom with a steaming bowl of soup.

“Hey,” she says, nudging him awake again. “Have you eaten anything today?”

“Mmph,” he mutters. “Not hungry.”

“You need something.”

He sighs and opens his eyes to look at her again. “I do?”

“Doctor's orders.”

He struggles upright again. “Y'know,” he says, “this bed is damn comfortable. And I’ve been sleepin' on the couch like a sucker.”

Juliet feels a little guilty about this. “We can trade off,” she says. “I don't mind.”

His hands are clumsy; the soup sloshes up the side of the bowl. Juliet folds her fingers over his and lifts the spoon.

“Open wide,” she says with a grin.

He doesn't even fight it. Just opens his mouth obediently and lets her feed him the soup.

“How long did you stick it out today?” she asks.

“Jin made me come home,” James mutters. “I came back for lunch and figured I was better off here.”

“Probably a wise decision,” Juliet says.

James swallows another mouthful of soup. “How was your day, honey?”

It's meant to be sarcastic. He says it a lot, his voice cheesy and falsely upbeat, like something out of a sitcom. But he lacks the energy today, and it comes out strangely lazy and comfortable instead. Juliet glances up at him, but he's not looking at her.

“It was okay,” she says. “The rain is getting everyone down.” She chews at her lip for a moment, gently scraping the spoon around the bowl to gather up the noodles clinging to the sides. “I was thinking,” she says, tentatively, “about Locke.”

James meets her eyes for a moment, and looks away again. His chest rises and falls heavily.

She feels guilty again, but he's pinned by fever and the rain – no avoiding her questions this time.

“How long are we going to play house?” she asks eventually.

His fingers curl into the sheet. “Guess I should've left things open so you could run on home,” he acknowledges. He blinks at her and shakes his head when she offers him the spoon again. He's managed just over half of the soup.

She puts the bowl aside. “James, I don't want to spend my life on this island.”

He nods. “I'll figure it out,” he says. “Just – just give me a couple of days.”

She doesn't push it. But she still hasn't had the discussion she wants. She wants answers, not vague reassurances.

“Maybe we could write songs or movies for a living,” James says tiredly. “We know all the upcomin' hits, right?”

She smiles and pulls the sheet up his chest a bit. “It doesn't have to be a rich life,” she says. “Just – just a life. And I don't think I can have one on this island.”

“We can start over,” he agrees, and his voice is a little slurred as he starts drifting again. “Leave it with me, Jules.”

When she takes the bowl back to the kitchen, she realises he said 'we'.

* * *

Juliet lasts four and a half hours on the couch before she gives up and creeps into the bedroom. James is sprawled out on his stomach, his arms curled up beneath the pillow.

She stretches out cautiously beside him, not daring to slip beneath the blankets, thanking her lucky stars that the air is still so warm she doesn't _have_ to. She feels worse than ever now, thinking about all the nights he's had to spend cramped up on that couch with those lumpy cushions beneath him.

His hand brushes her side and he sighs. “Soft,” he mumbles. “Not even one night.”

“Shut up,” Juliet says. She rolls over, but she can't see him in the dark. “If I leave,” she says, “does that mean you're coming too?”

“You're my missus, ain't you?” he says. “Guess we'd have to get a divorce if I stay behind.” His voice sounds rough. “Anyway, only asked you to stay two weeks, didn't I?”

Juliet's heart feels a little faster. “So, what do we do? Start fighting and throwing things so people understand when I take off? Continue this charade and leave together? And _then_ what? Go our separate ways?” She blinks, eyes widening in the dark. “And where would I go, anyway? I'd have to get a job. I'd have to get money for a place to live.”

He breathes deeply. “You try to plan too much,” he mumbles, voice half-lost in his pillow. “People get into trouble that way.”

“Guess you'd know,” she says, unable to resist a dig. “Con man.”

He grunts. “Go back to the couch, Nurse Ratched.”

* * *

When Juliet wakes up on Saturday morning, James' hand is resting over her ribs, his palm warm through the thin tank top she's wearing.

His mouth is still open, and she's pretty sure he's drooled all over her pillow.

She feels a little bit sorry for him, so she doesn't say anything sarcastic when he blinks awake. Just smiles sympathetically. “Feeling any better?”

He breathes out and closes his eyes again. Shifts his hand away and withdraws back to his side of the bed. “I'm dying,” he says pathetically.

His face is pasty and his hair is slack and damp. Juliet props herself up on her elbow and frowns down at him. “You're not dying,” she says. “Go and get in the shower and I'll make you some breakfast.”

He pulls the sheet over his head.

She pokes him before she heads for the kitchen, bare feet on the floorboards, her hands scooping her hair up into a ponytail. She makes a pot of coffee and listens to the pipes squeal as James runs the hot water.

She thinks about their conversation last night, tentative and limited as it was.

She doesn't want to ruin things for James. She thinks he could survive here okay; thinks he could survive at least as long as it takes Locke to come back.

Unless Locke isn't coming back, and then, well.

But maybe James wants to leave this place just as badly as she does. Or, maybe, he's only talking about coming with her because the act he's putting on here is wearing thin.

* * *

Juliet runs through a load of laundry and mops the floors, watching the sun dry away the wet streaks of water as it shines through the windows. The rain has stopped, but the humidity hasn't disappeared, and her hair curls and sticks to the back of her neck.

When she checks on James again, he's stripped to his boxers and the sheets are all untucked and kicked loose. His face is flushed and hot. “Where the fuck did all that rain go?” he asks, his eyes slightly glazed. “It's like an oven in here.”

Juliet brushes her knuckles against his cheek gently. “Are you hungry?”

He shakes his head and tosses himself over impatiently, ruffling the sheets and turning the pillow so the cool side is against his hot face.

Juliet fetches the ibuprofen again and makes him take two with a full glass of water. “Try to get some sleep,” she says.

“I slept all night,” James says impetuously. His face is mostly buried in the pillow, but he turns his head to peek at her. “Can you get me my book?”

“Where is it?”

He shrugs and turns back into the pillow again.

Juliet rolls her eyes before she goes hunting.

* * *

“James, come on,” Juliet says helplessly. She tosses his book to the end of the bed. “You're not _that_ sick.”

“Yeah I am,” he says pathetically, and then he gives a weak cough, as if to prove it. His face is flushed and hot. “Just one chapter.”

Juliet folds her arms and looks down at him suspiciously.

“What?” he asks, frowning back at her. “I _am_ dying. Even I can't con this good.”

“You are not dying,” Juliet says, still standing at the edge of the bed. “I'm sure you've been closer to the reaper than this.”

James gives another pathetic cough and widens his eyes a little. “So call it a farewell present, seein' as you're so keen to jump on that sub.”

Juliet's heart skips and thuds in her chest. “Not – I mean, it'll take a few weeks,” she says defensively. “We still have to figure out what we're doing.”

She grabs his book and flops onto the bed beside him, thumbing through the pages until she finds his place. “Does this mean you'd stay?” she asks, watching him.

“Hm?” he asks, blinking at her.

“If I leave. Are you going to stay?”

“Figure it won't make much difference what I do,” he says gruffly. “This is the most legitimate job I’ve ever had.”

“Of course it is, LaFleur,” she drawls at him.

He grins and his arm falls against her side, his thumb pressing gently against her ribs. “How about you get on and tend to a dyin' man's wish?”

Juliet's stomach gives a silly little flutter. She ignores it and starts to read aloud, trying to ignore the fact that James is milking this for everything it's worth, and she's letting him get away with it.

* * *

By mid-afternoon, his fever has broken. Juliet practically forces him out of bed and orders him to take a shower while she strips the damp sheets away.

James mutters something under his breath as he drags himself to his feet. It sounds suspiciously like _witch doctor_ but she can't be sure.

“You can forget about me reading to you later, then,” she says.

He gives her a pitiful look before he disappears into the bathroom.

He comes back a few minutes later, the clean scent of soap drifting with him, a towel tucked around his waist. He flops onto the bed, still wet.

“James!” Juliet barks. “I _just_ put those sheets on.” She pulls another towel from the rack in the bathroom. “How do you expect to get better if you're lying in a puddle of water?”

She rubs his hair with the towel and he mumbles complaints at her the whole time. She pats him on the back and his skin feels warm and dry, without the clammy flush of fever upon it. “You're on the mend,” she says. “My sympathy will run dry any minute now.”

“What sympathy?” he mutters, but he shoots her a grin and slides in beneath the clean sheets. A few seconds later, the towel that was around his waist hits the floor.

“James,” Juliet says, exasperated and feeling a little hot in the face.

“Hey,” he says, pulling his pillow in beneath his cheek, “if you're allowed to divorce a guy and swan off back to a richer life on the mainland, he's allowed to take comfort in the little things, like a soft bed against his skin.”

“I haven't left yet,” Juliet says pointedly.

James looks at her in a way she can't quite decipher. She looks down at her hands and busies herself with folding the towel neatly.

“Figured it out yet?” he asks. “What's the grand plan?”

“I don't know!” Juliet says, almost snapping at him. “It's not – I just know I can't live here my whole life.” She rumples the towel and starts to fold it again. “We don't know what happened to the others and I guess I’m sick of waiting for an answer I’m not sure will ever come.”

James watches her quietly for a moment before he looks away again with a shrug. “You're still lookin' at it wrong,” he says. “You settle on one answer for every question and you're gonna get stuck sooner or later.”

* * *

Juliet wakes up when the moon is pouring ripe through the window. James' arm is heavy across her stomach.

She turns her head to look at him, but he's asleep, and she makes a mental note to snark at him in the morning for finally managing to sleep with his mouth closed. (At least he agreed to put pants on before she got in beside him.)

She still feels prickly. Any conversation about the submarine, about leaving the island, tightens her nerves and makes her jumpy. She feels like if she doesn't go now, she'll never go. She'll never leave.

The chance is still there. Her establishment in this place isn't fully-rooted, yet. She could leave the motor pool and they'd shrug and wish her well, assuming she was going back to whatever the hell backstory it was Jim LaFleur spun for her. Horace would probably be relieved, even. Once less new face to keep an eye on – though he's nowhere near as dedicated to secrecy as Ben will be, thirty years from now.

Juliet bites down hard on her lip. She doesn't even know how long it's going to be before time lines start crossing. She doesn't recognise any of her future neighbours yet, but how long until they start showing up? And what if Locke _does_ come back? Better she get the hell away from the place now before good intentions come screaming back through time and fuck it all up.

She's never really had a tether here. Nothing permanent to anchor her.

She looks over at James. His mouth is open again.

She gives a soft laugh and rolls over.

* * *

“Rock, paper, scissors,” James says. “Loser gets up and makes breakfast.”

They're both in bed, stomachs down against the mattress, faces half-buried in their pillows. Juliet can only see one of James' eyes, and his dimple as he grins at her.

“I think you owe me breakfast in bed,” Juliet says. She lifts her head just enough so she can see him properly. “I kept you alive over the past couple of days, after all.”

“Well now, there's a thought,” James muses. “What am I gonna do when you leave and the plague comes back and I got no one here to keep me warm at night?”

“I was not keeping you warm at night,” Juliet retorts immediately.

James grins at her.

“Cuddle Miles,” she says, looking down her nose at him.

James pouts. “Aw, he's not my type.”

Juliet laughs and rubs her face over her eyes. “James,” she says quietly. “I've been trying to leave this island for a long time.”

“The island you've been trying to leave is thirty damn years ahead of us,” James says. He props himself up on his elbows, looking surprisingly serious. “You want to go, I ain't gonna stop you,” he says. “But what exactly are you goin' back to if you leave here?”

Juliet already knows the answer to this. _Nothing._

* * *

It's raining again on Monday morning, and Juliet wakes up with her brow pressed between James' shoulders, her arm slung over his side.

She accidentally kicks him as she flails away, and he makes a wounded noise and rolls onto his back.

“What'd you do that for?”

“Nothing, I wasn't!” Juliet says sharply. “It – I mean, it was an accident.” She breathes out. “Sorry.”

“You're not goin' to work, are you?” James asks, closing his eyes again.

“It's Monday.”

“C'mon,” he says. “Everyone's gonna assume I infected you with the plague. Take a day off.”

“Right,” Juliet says sarcastically. “James –”

“They all know I was half-dead,” he continues. “Ain't such a stretch to assume you're in the same boat.”

Juliet casts a glance to the window. The rain is shooting down in silver waves and it's tempting to just roll over and bury her face in her pillow. Tempting, but wrong.

“I can't,” she says.

“They really so overworked at the motor pool?” James asks.

“You'd be surprised,” Juliet mutters. She plucks at the sheet. “Why should I take a day off?”

“Because I’m takin' a day off,” he says, grinning at her. He looks wickedly proud of himself. “You can stay and keep me company.”

“I'm not reading to you again,” she warns him.

“We'll see,” he sighs, nestling into his pillow with an air of determination she hasn't seen since they arrived here. “You don't really want to go.”

Juliet sinks back onto her pillow slowly. “I guess not,” she says. “I guess I could stay here.” She glances over at him and sees him watching her. “Just to make sure you don't relapse,” she adds.

“Good thinking, 99,” James says. His hand drifts over the mattress and his fist rests loosely against her side, just touching, just so. “This place is finally startin' to feel tolerable.”

* * *

 

 


End file.
